


The Point of a Slow Dance

by sandpaperblues



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, F/M, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love, Misunderstandings, Realization, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:49:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpaperblues/pseuds/sandpaperblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Abbie is invited to a friend's wedding, she asked Ichabod to be her date. It is a responsibility he takes quite seriously.</p><p>Total fluff and I'm not sorry. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Point of a Slow Dance

When the wedding invitation arrived, Abigail didn’t even think twice about checking off the box for her plus one, or about writing the name _Ichabod Crane_ in the space provided. When a brief, floating image appeared in her mind of his name in curly, elaborate typeface upon a place card right next to hers, it didn’t even occur to her to wonder why.

She even slipped the RSVP card into the envelope and sealed it before mentioning anything about it to him. He would come with her. Of course he would. It was a perfectly natural assumption to make, she thought. Such things as accompanying each other to social functions she had long been taking for granted.

As she filled the kettle and waited for it to boil, she dropped the sealed envelope onto the spot on the counter labelled with a Post-it: Outgoing Mail. This Post-it was in his hand. He enjoyed dropping mail into the box outside the apartment building. It filled him with “civic pride,” he said once with a grin.

As the kettle began to whistle, Ichabod arrived back home. He joined her in the kitchen, placing a paper bag of groceries on the counter beside her.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Please,” he began to unpack the groceries.

But a mug already waited for him, filled with half an inch of milk, just as he liked it. There were many things she took for granted with him.

The groceries moved from the bag to his hands to the counter as Abbie sipped her tea and studied the wedding invitation.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what is the matter with this vegetable, but the clerk insisted it is meant to be such a hue,” Ichabod held up a purple cauliflower, his face stretching into wide-eyed grin, “And thus I cannot wait to try it.” As he put the vegetables into the crisper, he added, “Such sorcery you have these days to render even the simplest of foods a complicated matter.”

Abbie could only smile to herself as she answered, “We can eat the purple cauliflower tonight.”

As he closed the refrigerator door, Ichabod clapped his hands with the joy of a task completed. His eyes took, in due diligence, to the spot on the counter where mail waited.

“What is this?” he picked up the pale pink envelope and, expecting the pearly paper to smell like something floral and ghastly, gave it a sniff, “I do not recognize this penmanship.”

“Oh, that’s just an RSVP for my friends’ wedding. The one in June I told you about.”

“An _RSVP_ …?” he frowned, “What on Earth…?”

“It’s French,” she smiled at him, “It means _Répondez s'il vous plait_ , which means—”

“Please reply,” he grinned back at her, “I know.”

As Abbie carried her tea into the living room, she added, “I put you down as my plus one.”

She said it so casually that Ichabod immediately assumed a _plus one_ must be something like an emergency contact. Surely that would be common and necessary for the elaborate event he knew modern weddings had become.

As he picked up his tea and followed her from the kitchen, he asked, “What do you mean by _plus one_ , Lieutenant? Am I to come fetch you if you fall ill?”

“No,” she laughed, collapsing into the couch, “It means you’re my date. That you’re coming with me.”

“Your date?” His feet skidded on the carpet. “I am to accompany you to a… to a _wedding_? As your _date_?”

“Yes,” she laughed. But then his face looked at her with such incomprehension, that she sat up. “Unless you can’t make it that day? The Save the Date’s been on the fridge for months. I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I meant, we always—”

“Oh, no! It is not a… _big deal_ ,” he stuttered, one hand clenched at his side, the other burning as it held a hot mug of tea. As the tea nearly spilt, he quickly set the mug on the coffee table.

Abbie looked at him in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Quite,” he blushed, “I mean, naturally, I can attend alongside you. As you are surely aware, I have no plans that… well, that don’t include you.”

Abbie raised an eyebrow, “It’s just a wedding, Crane.”

“Yes,” he nodded quickly, “Just a wedding. And I shall be your… _plus one_. Your… _date._ ”

“Crane,” she said softly, “It’s not a big deal.”

But even as she said it, his eyes meeting hers, she wondered how true that was. 

 

* * *

 

As Abbie put on the new dress she bought for the wedding, she smoothed the lace down over her hips and gave herself a glance in the mirror. She realized she was nervous.

She’d spent longer getting ready this morning than she normally did for these sorts of things. She pinned her hair up carefully, delicately applied her lipstick, and even wondered how much taller these heels would make her when she walked into the church, her arm linked into his.

As her eyes met her own in her reflection, something caught in her throat. But just as quickly as the nerves came, she pushed them back down.

There were far more practical things to keep her mind on. There was a church they had to be at. And a time they needed to be there. Her eyes left the mirror and drifted to the clock. They were supposed to leave five minutes ago. She hadn’t even called the cab.

Stepping back from the mirror, Abbie called out: “Crane!”

No answer came.

Several hours ago, she sent him on an errand. He’d been puttering about the apartment all morning in a restless frenzy. She gave him a list of wedding essentials: Altoids, Kleenex, Tylenol, Tide-To-Go. He seemed glad for the task. She smiled to herself as his face studied the list as if these essentials were a legal requirement when attending a wedding.

But he had not yet returned.

“Crane?” Abbie stepped out into the living room. “Crane?!”

As she reached for her cell phone, the door immediately swung open, Ichabod’s remorseful tone preceding him, “I apologize profusely for my tardiness! I heard your voice emanating in the corridor!”

A bag of supplies swung in his hand, but Abbie did not even see them. She stared at him, agape. “Oh my god, Crane,” she breathed.

He reddened, “Oh, yes. That. I also did some shopping. I feared my attire would embarrass you. I should have gone shopping earlier, but—”

“No,” Abbie cut him off, “Don’t apologize. You look… _good_.”

He was wearing a grey, slim-cut suit; she was immediately sure the employee at the store had easily talked him into it. It was pin-striped, she noticed, and a three-piece. He’d tied his hair back into a bun. She could easily have imagined him on a red carpet somewhere.

“As do you, Lieutenant,” a smile broke slowly across his face, “Have you grown a few inches?”

 

* * *

 

The ushers delivered them to the third pew, as family and friends of the couple filtered in around them. There were many people there she recognized from years past: old friends, friends of friends, family of friends.

To have Ichabod alongside her as she shared hugs and handshakes felt so perfectly natural. She only ever introduced him by name, and once as her partner. There was a small thrill in letting people make whatever assumptions they would.

At dinner, they were seated at a table of eight with other couples. The small talk was pleasant enough, and she watched him with pride as he held his own. When one person asked them how they’d met, the result was a shared glance and a silent agreement.

“Through work,” she answered.

“It’s… what is the phrase?” Ichabod asked with a sigh, “Complicated?”

She leaned her chin on her hand and raised an eyebrow at him, “I think that might be the right phrase.”

The rest of the table laughed, but Ichabod gave her a smile that was surprisingly tender. As she leaned back against her chair to join in the laughs, he lifted his arm around the back of her chair and left it there for a while. 

 

* * *

 

As she turned her chair around to watch the new couple’s first dance, she accidentally bumped against his leg. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Do not worry yourself, Lieutenant,” he whispered in return.

But his leg remained there, against hers. For all of the first dance, he was so close she could hear his quiet breathing and feel the heat from his body. The urge took her to simply lean back into him.

But as soon as she realized she even wanted to do this, she felt suddenly afraid. The fear was irrational, she knew, but it filled her nonetheless. All sorts of silly thoughts flooded her mind: What if he pulled away? What would happen them? Would they lapse into silence for the rest of the night, an unspeakable awkwardness between them? They would never talk about it, she knew, but they would both just _know_ that something was different, something that could never be changed back.

But what if he did not pull away? What if he wrapped his arms around her in return? What would happen then? From there, she did not want to let herself imagine it. That was a slippery path.

No, it was best to ignore it. Just as she had been doing tonight. Just as she had been doing for a long time, she realized.

She held her breath for nearly the entire first dance, unmoving, unflinching. Her eyes watched the couple sway in each other’s arms, but all she could fixate on was his leg pressed against hers.

The dance ended and another began. Abbie still could not bring herself to move.

As other couples joined in with the bride and her father, she heard him say, “This dancing is far less elaborate than any I am used to engaging in, but I suspect I shall be able to pick it up.”

His chair began to move. She felt his leg move away from hers. The absence of his touch was startling. Breathing again, she turned, prepared to face him.

But he was already on his feet, a hand extended, “Shall we, Lieutenant?”

Abbie tried to answer, but her voice was lost. She could barely nod at him. Her hand slipped into his, and he pulled her to her feet. 

 

* * *

 

As his hand closed around her waist, Abbie leaned into him. She still had not said a word as he began to lead.

“It seems rather generous to call this _dancing_ ,” he murmured, “There is no coordination involved. No steps one must learn.”

Peering up at him as he studied the other couples with a furrowed brow, she at last breathed. Smiling, she replied, “I don’t think that’s really the point of a slow dance.”

“Then what, pray tell, is?”

She tried to smile again for him, but she could not. Her grip on his arm slackened and she looked away. “I don’t know.”

But as Ichabod looked around the dance floor, he could see other couples pressed tightly against each other. He saw the smiles on their faces, and the looks they gave each other.

He tried to catch her eyes again, as if to say _I understand_ , but she was looking determinedly away from him.

As the song ended, Abbie dropped her hands from his and stepped back. His hand slid from her waist and fell limply at his side.

“Am I supposed to curtsy or something?” she said with a blank face, “Thank you for the dance?”

“No,” he breathed, wanting desperately to ask her what he’d done wrong. But he couldn’t bring himself to say another thing.

“I need to get some air,” she said quickly and slid from the dance floor before he could even think to stop her.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes had passed and she had not returned. The dance floor had shifted considerably in its playlist and Ichabod realized there were far more unfathomable forms of dancing these days than slow dancing. He suddenly appreciated the simplicity of it.

When the other couples from their table left—to dance or mingle, it didn’t matter—he sat alone, running hands over the satin table cloth. She would not want him to come to her, he thought. She was most likely outside with old friends, sharing a cigar and a laugh.

It had been nice to see her open up around them. He felt it had been a window into a part of her life he had not been privy to before. To meet this cast of characters that had been in her life before he came into it made him appreciate how rich her life had been. And it made him realize how little he knew of her sometimes.

His eyes drifted across the table, over the matching wedding favours and the cake crumb-covered plates, and landed on their two place cards. On pearly pink paper that matched the invitation, he saw his name scrawled out elaborately— _Ichabod Crane_ —next to hers— _Abigail Mills_.

How ridiculous to be sitting in here alone, without her. There was nothing he did without her. There was nothing he _wanted_ to do without her. He pushed his chair back from the table, and rose to his feet.

He slipped between the tables, dodging a giggling trail of flower girls, and made his way to the door.

It opened into a courtyard, where a bevy of wedding guests were gathered, some smoking, others just enjoying the night. He spotted Abbie laughing alongside a few friends.

She smiled when she saw him and waved him over.

 

* * *

 

As the night wore on, they danced again, they laughed again. The awkwardness had passed, Abbie decided. Everything would be normal again.

It was the silliness of weddings, she told herself. The frivolity of it all made you think things and feel things you wouldn’t otherwise.

At last, when the number of guests dwindled, and the music drifted into the slow burn of _Stairway to Heaven_ , Abbie slouched back in her chair. “Shall we start making a move?”

Ichabod narrowed, “Are you asking me to dance again?”

“No,” she laughed, “I mean, shall we get going?”

“Oh, right.”

“My feet are killing me in these shoes.”

 

* * *

 

As they made their way out onto the front steps, few cars were left in the parking lot. Abbie slipped her phone into her purse. “The taxi is on its way. It might be a bit of a wait, though.”

“I do not mind waiting,” he smiled as he took off his jacket. Holding it open for her to put on, he added, “I hear this is customary.”

She pursed her lips to repress a grin, “You watch too many movies.”

“Only because you make me. I think I now have a severely distorted perception of the modern era.”

“That’s Hollywood,” the grin appeared on her lips. With a sigh, she turned, holding back her arms, and let him slide the jacket onto her shoulders.

“There,” he said, satisfied, “Do you feel better?”

She turned back around to face him. “I wasn’t cold, but… yes. I feel better.”

His hands were on the lapels of the jacket as he pulled it closed over her. “It’s a bit large for you, I am afraid.”

Her voice was soft as she stared up at him, “I don’t mind.”

He gave her that smile she realized she loved: the smile where just one corner of his lips curls upward. “Have I been an adequate date?”

She could feel her breath catching again. “More than adequate,” she whispered.

He leaned in closer to her. His hands were still on the jacket. “Then we shall have to do this again sometime.”

She could feel his breath on her cheeks. “I would like that.”

The taxi honked suddenly and, startled, Ichabod leapt backwards. “Oh, heavens!” he gasped, “I thought you said it would be a wait?!”

 

* * *

 

The ride home passed in silence, save for small talk with the driver. Abbie stared out the window, trying as hard as she could to stop replaying the last few moments in her head over and over. _Trying_ , but failing.

As the taxi dropped them off outside their building, she could barely bring herself to look at Ichabod as they made their way up in the elevator.

He must have been thinking the same thing, she convinced herself: this wedding, this night, it was some kind of spell over them.

Was it seeing old friends that did it? That reminded her how many people had once been in her life and how important they had all been… and then making her realize that he was more important than all of them put together?

But that didn’t have to mean _love_ , she told herself. It was possible she was confusing things. She cared about him. She loved him, of course. But that didn’t have to mean it was a _slow dance_ kind of love.

Yes, she told herself, trying to convince herself at last: it was not a slow dance kind of love. It couldn’t be.

As they stepped inside their apartment, her hands fell on his jacket as she peeled it off her shoulders. It smelled like him, she realized. It had been such a comforting smell.

She held it in her hands. She looked to the jacket in her hands and then looked up to him in his pin-striped waistcoat and trousers. He still wore his tie.

“Crane,” she started, breaking the silence that had lasted nearly half an hour, “Why did you buy a new suit this morning? You haven’t bought any new clothes—any _modern_ clothes—since… well, _ever_.”

His face softened even as his cheeks reddened. “I wanted to fit in with you and your friends. I didn’t want to embarrass you today.”

“Why would you ever embarrass me? I’ve gone everywhere with you dressed like you normally do. Why would this be any different?”

“Because,” he stuttered, “I was… I was… your _date_.”

“But what did you think that meant?”

She wanted him to come rushing towards her, she realized. But he just stood there, arms at his sides, his fingers curling in confusion. “I…” he trailed off, “I don’t know.”

“But you do know.” She held his jacket tightly and clutched it to her chest. “And so do I.”

“I… I…” he swallowed, “I don’t what I can say.”

His eyes held hers and she felt them fill with tears. Everything she’d been holding back all this time had been like holding back the waves. It rushed over her and there was no way she was going to be able to bottle it up again.

“Do you need me to say it _first_?” she said, her lips quivering.

She could see the tears in his eyes too as his voice wavered: “Yes.”

The simplicity of his _yes_ was all she needed. Suddenly how difficult it all seemed, how overwhelming it was, just faded away.

“I love you, Ichabod Crane,” she said, a smile surprising her lips, “I am so in love with you.”

She could see something give way in him too, just as it had in her. “And I love you,” he smiled back, “Abigail Mills. I am _so_ in love with you too.”


End file.
